Convenient
by ArabellaFaith
Summary: My version of what's really going on behind closed doors at 221B and how our boys got together finally! Rated MMM for 'mmm, lots of smut'


_**Just a little oneshot (well, I use the term 'little' loosely) about John and Sherlock getting together. In my mind, this is the most realistic option, because no matter how much I wish it otherwise, I doubt the writers of the show are ever going to get our boys together. So just imagine this is happening behind the scenes and then you can have your cake and eat it too ; )**_

It happened gradually, so gradually that neither of them noticed. The way the first snow fall of the year leaves barely a scant trace of white dotting the ground, the second fills in some of the gaps, and somehow, by the fifth or sixth storm there are several inches packed onto the ground and you don't remember exactly how it all got there. Accumulation over time. Acclimation.

Sherlock had never brought home a date, male or female, that John knew of. Hell, John wasn't even sure Sherlock had those needs. John, on the other hand, had a very healthy sex drive thank you very much. He brought his dates home seldom, preferring to go to their flats for romance. The few times he did bring them to 221B, though, he could tell. It wasn't just in the way Sherlock looked at them- or didn't look at them. It was in the way he always forgot their names (Sherlock never forgot names) or the way he made observations about their sexual habits (he could care less about anyone elses sex lives) or the way he sighed in relief when they finally left (only John could see it was a sigh of relief- and not even Sherlock knew that John was aware of it).

So over time, slowly, John stopped bringing women to the flat. More than that, he stopped dating. It wasn't a conscious decision. He wasn't choosing Sherlock over women with his rational mind. It just happened. Sherlock didn't like John with women and John didn't like upsetting Sherlock. Honest to god it wasn't something they ever talked about. There were no passionate ultimatums given, no pleading late night discussions. It just happened.

Sherlock's concession was much more subtle. For a long time, no one except the doctor noticed it. But from the very first, John saw it. He noticed it the way you see a butterfly coming towards you- beautiful and wondrous at a distance, slightly disturbing up close. Sherlock started to -occasionally- be _nice_ to him. And not in the Sherlock-cure-your-psychosemantic-limp-whether-you-like-it-or-not way. In the make tea for you way. In the order the kind of wine John likes even though Sherlock hates it way.

The first time it had happened, John had sat back in his chair, sighed contentedly and thanked his lucky stars that his patience had paid off. He'd always known there was a decent human being buried in that machine mind of Sherlock's. The second time he'd treated it the way you might treat a passing comet. Once or twice in a life time. He took the time to fully appreciate the moment, fairly certain it would never come again. By the fourth time, he'd started to get worried. Was Sherlock mad at him? It wouldn't surprise him if in crazy Holmes land (where you drugged your friend when you wanted to show him how much he meant to you) being nice meant you suddenly hated the person.

When he'd suspiciously demanded an explanation, Sherlock had...flushed. When that little bit of color had risen to the detective's face, John had wanted to grab the man by the lapels and shake him, demanding who he was and what he'd done with Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock had covered his discomfort quickly and responded with his usual acid wit. It was a relief, really, to see that Sherlock was still the same callous, smart-ass bastard he'd always been. And then, a few days later, another attack of nice had happened.

Then one day John realized that the considerate acts had become just as normal as his own lack of love life.

Neither of them spoke of it.

Neither of them labeled it.

But somewhere along the way, they'd begun to care about each other more than flat-mates. More than partners. More than friends.

Even still, there was nothing sexual about their relationship. Despite what the papers (and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and Anderson, and Donovan, and Angelo) speculated, there was never any illicit action between them. (Only Mycroft knew that they hadn't progressed further in their relationship, but of course he never spoke of it, or what he knew was coming.) And the reasons were clear. John wasn't gay. It wasn't a case of 'the lady doth protest too much.' He honestly wasn't attracted to men. Besides, Sherlock wasn't interested in sex. It was too mundane, too base to capture his attention. Sex and sentiment, they distracted him. They muddled things. The way digestion dulled his mind. If he could cut off his dietary needs as easily as he'd cut off his libido, he would have with great relish.

The problem was that despite the...platonic romance? between them, John still _did_ have a sex drive. One that could be very insistent when it wanted to be.

The night it came to a head, John had been trying to get his erection to wane for most of dinner. It wasn't working. Thinking of his Great Aunt Maude hadn't helped. Reciting rugby scores hadn't helped. Pinching himself hard on the thigh hadn't helped. Nothing seemed to deflate the damn thing a bit.

At first, Sherlock had pretended not to notice it. He politely averted his gaze when the erection tried to knock a tea cup off the counter. He made no comment when it waved hello at him under the table while he picked up his dropped napkin. He stubbornly ignored it when it pleaded for attention over dessert. It was while they were sipping tea in the living room when he finally snapped.

"Oh for heaven's sake, John, can't you control your own anatomy?" He irritably clattered his teacup onto it's saucer. John looked momentarily embarrassed, then his brows drew together thunderously.

"It's not as if I invited it over for dinner! Not that you'd know, but with regular _humans_ sometimes these things build up until they can't be ignored."

"You've got to be kidding me," Sherlock sighed. "Are you telling me that you've reached the metaphorical boiling point? After only seven months and three days?"

"I don't even want to know how you know the exact amount of time it's been. But yes. It seems I've reached my limit."

"Why haven't you gone out and found yourself a nice woman to sate it with?" This time there was no ire in his tone. It was asked softly, hesitantly, almost sadly.

"Because!" John snapped back. Sherlock said nothing, and after a moment, John ran a tired hand over his face. "Because," he repeated, tone moderated into soft defeat, "you don't like it when I do."

The words hung in the air between them as tangible as leaves on the wind. It was the first time either of them had spoken of it out loud, though they'd both known it all along. Part of Sherlock wanted to feel betrayed that John had broken their unspoken pact, but the rational part of him could only deal with what had already happened. It was out. They would have to face it.

"No," he admitted. "I don't." He waited a beat, then added, "I didn't expect that to matter."

"Yes, well it does." Some of the ire had come back to John's tone, but it was moderated with resignation now.

"Why?"

"You know why." The silence stretched between them long enough that John felt the need to break it again. "The same reason you make tea and remember my birthday and try not to ruin my favorite jumper with your latest experiment."

Sherlock knew exactly what he meant, but when he tried to come up with a label for it, was at a loss. "I don't suppose you have a name for this...whatever it is?"

"Hell, Sherlock, I don't know. It's damn sure not a relationship but it's a hell of a lot more than friendship."

"It works quite well for us."

"Usually, yes," John admitted. It was true. Ninety nine percent of the time, this...whatever it was...worked perfectly for them. "But not right now it isn't." Which was also true. John's still persistent erection was clear evidence.

"So what do we do?" All the possibilities were already going through Sherlock's mind at lightning speed. In half a second, he'd landed on a possible option but he needed time to think it over. So he waited to see what John would say. Maybe John had another option that might work...

"I have no idea," the doctor admitted, shattering Sherlock's hope of a reprieve. He shook himself. It wasn't as if he was being sacrificed at some pagan alter. It wasn't even as though he would be paying a very high cost to have John Watson all to himself. He cleared his throat, gathered his courage, and spoke.

"There's always me."

"Pardon?"

"Me. There's...me."

"You." John only stared at him, uncomprehending.

"As an outlet, John," Sherlock practically snapped the words. Did John really need it spelled out?

"What, you mean for sex?"

"Obviously." Sherlock's haughty tone, even though John knew was only being used to cover discomfort, grated on him.

"You mean to tell me that in all our years together, it somehow managed to escape the notice of the great Sherlock Holmes that _I'm not gay_?"

Sherlock glared at the other man. "I'm aware of your sexual predilections," he said through gritted teeth. "Just as I'm aware that I am very attractive. To both members of the sex."

At this, John laughed. "And so modest."

"Modesty belongs to those with things to be modest about. I do not."

"You know cockiness isn't always a turn-on in a partner, right?" John shook his head in mock irritation. Sherlock's eyes went to John's groin and the rather large tent there. He smirked.

"Be that as it may, it doesn't seem to have dampened _your_ interest. Nor has talk of me being the recipient. I take that as a sign your body is amenable."

John grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it in his lap, uncomfortable with Sherlock's eyes lingering there. "Yeah, well right now I'm sure even walking into a crime scene wouldn't deflate that damn thing. It has a mind of it's own." But that second mind was whispering enticingly to his own mind. Asking what would be the harm in letting off a little steam? In taking Sherlock up on his offer. He wouldn't have even put the thought out there if he wasn't willing... And one little indulgance didn't make him gay or anything. It was just like scratching at itch. Or having Sherlock scratch his itch. One friend doing another a favor.

His cock twitched in anticipation. John jumped a little and smashed the pillow further onto his errant erection.

"Shall I be flattered that you're comparing me to a crime scene?" Sherlock raised on brow, not taking offense at all. He could see the sudden desire in John's eyes. For some strange reason, it made his heart speed up. A tingle of...something...made it's way down his spine and settled just below his stomach. "Come now, doctor, no reason to make this more than it is. You have a physical need that I am willing to take care of."

"But you..." John tried very hard to keep all the very logical reasons he shouldn't jump Sherlock upmost in his mind. They were becoming clouded, slipping away... "You don't actually have those wants. It would be entirely one sided."

"Is that a problem?" Sherlock was genuinely curious.

"Of course that's a problem! It's not as if I generally just use my partners for what I want and then leave. That's selfish and cruel. Not something you'd do to someone you care about."

The silence that gathered around them suddenly was so absolute it could have been solidified into glass. They only stared at each other for an endless moment. Neither had ever said the words out loud before. Of course Sherlock knew John cared. And Sherlock had made it equally well known, in his own Sherlock way, that he cared for John. But they'd never _spoken_ of it. That wasn't how their arrangement worked. It seemed John was breaking all the rules. Though in his defense, Sherlock had shocked the hell out of him.

"While I appreciate the...sentiment, John, I disagree in our case." He sighed, disliking having all this pesky emotion out in the open. "I would like our arrangement to continue as it has. Just...us. However I recognize that you have needs. I myself have mastered those drives, but I don't expect you to have. And if my options are to send you out to find a partner, or offer myself up as that partner-" he paused, not entirely sure how to finish. He was usually so loquacious, so verbose. Only when it came to things like this did he lose the words that normally came so easily. "If that's the case, I would much rather keep you to myself. So you see, I am the one being selfish. Does that placate your conscience?"

John only sat for a long minute, watching him. His cock was still straining at him, begging for attention, but for the moment, John's mind was on another train of thought. Did Sherlock really care for him that much? Enough to _want_ to have sex with him, even though Sherlock simply didn't do sex? The thought was surprisingly...touching.

"Sherlock...what exactly are you offering?"

Sherlock waved his hand negligently. He had a basic idea of the things the doctor liked. None of them seemed particularly fascinating to him, but he wouldn't be opposed to any of them. Not when it would keep John by his side. Despite the fact that he didn't ask it to, his mind played various scenarios through his head like a movie reel. Scenarios in which he and John were intimately joined. Suddenly, the tingle that had settled just below his belly slipped lower and coiled itself around his sex organs. He nearly jumped as something unfamiliar, something hot and cold and confusing, made his breath hitch and hands tremble. What the devil was wrong with him? He mentally took his heart rate and realized it had risen significantly. Suddenly he had the ludicrous notion that if he saw himself in a mirror, his pupils would be dilated. "Whatever-" his voice came out strangely high. He stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. "Whatever you need."

Was it John's imagination, or had Sherlock's skin flushed? Had he imagined that hitch in his breathing? Was it just wishful thinking that there had been a twitch at the placket of Sherlock's trousers? Suddenly, John realized that Sherlock had been absolutely right on one point. He was a very attractive man. Not that this was the first time John had realized that his flat-mate was handsome. He couldn't have missed it even if he'd been blind. But for the first time he allowed himself to really see it. Sherlock was long and lean, sleek muscle over elegant bones. His face was beautiful both because of it's arrestiveness as well as because of John's emotional attachment to the man. His hands were large but slender, capable and nimble. John swallowed hard at the thought of those hands on him in intimate places.

Just when he'd decided to damn his sexual preferences and damn their carefully build Platonism, another thought occurred to him. By the time he realized he had to ask, he found he'd already risen from the sofa and was standing behind Sherlock. Of their own accord, his hands came up and grasped Sherlock's arms, just above the elbows. Holding him still? Needing contact with him? John wasn't sure the exact reason.

"Sherlock," he whispered the word name, unable to make his voice raise above a hush. "Are you a virgin?" John could feel Sherlock stiffen. He said nothing, the silence speaking more loudly than Sherlock's commanding baritone ever could. John felt a whirling rush of delight and disappointment. How could he be someone's first who didn't even really want it? How much did Sherlock care for him that he was willing to- for the first time ever- give himself to someone?

Something hardened inside John. A resolve. He was a good lover, he could make it happen. And he was probably going to need all the expertise he'd previously taken for granted. Because he was going to give Sherlock the best sex of his life- sex he would enjoy, whether he knew how to or not.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked softly. John felt the growl resonate in his chest before he actually heard it. He whirled Sherlock around and then pushed him against the wall sharply, pinning both of Sherlock's hands above his head.

"Yes it bloody well matters." He nearly lost it at the sensation of his erection being trapped between their bodies. This time, he knew for one hundred percent certain that he didn't imagine the twitch in Sherlock's trousers. Because he _felt_ it. "It matters to me. Because I do care about you, Sherlock, heaven help me. I'm going to take you up on your offer, but there's a slight change of plan."

"Oh?" Sherlock suddenly couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't take his eyes away from Johns, the way they were blazing at him, lust and -love?- warring inside him.

"You're not just going to be an outlet, Sherlock. You're going to _like it_." John pressed his body tighter against Sherlock and leaned up to capture Sherlock's lips. The kiss was hard and demanding. John took no prisoners. His tongue moved into Sherlock's mouth at the first opportunity, exploring and ravaging.

He knew this shouldn't arouse him, but somehow, Sherlock found himself pushing back against John. His years of carefully trained resistance crumbled away. Under the onslaught of Dr John Watson, all of Sherlock's reserve fell to dust. Suddenly, the feel of John against him became the most important thing in the world. The taste of John was heaven, the smell of him pure paradise. It was familiar and yet deliciously foreign. Of it's own accord, his lips stopped merely accepting the kiss and started to return it.

John groaned as he felt the change. He hadn't thought he could become any more aroused, but feeling Sherlock press back against him, give rather than passively receive, made him harden even more. He pushed his hips closer to Sherlock, pleased beyond belief that what had started as a few twitches had become a full-blown erection. It was what he'd been waiting, hoping for. He broke their kiss, leaving both of them panting for air.

"Come on. My room," John managed to say roughly. Sherlock looked bewildered.

"Why not here?"

"Trust me," John said. And Sherlock only nodded. He did trust John. Implicitly.

They made a mad dash for John's bedroom, not bothering to close the door behind them. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Sherlock was being well and thoroughly snogged again. His knees hit the back of John's bed and then John pushed him down on it. As Sherlock watched, John stripped off his jumper and the t shirt beneath it. Impatient, Sherlock sat up to take off his own shirt. As his fingers went to the buttons, though, John stopped him. He looked up questioningly, but John only shook his head.

"I want to do it," he whispered. Then he was deftly undoing the buttons, revealing more and more of Sherlock's chest with each one. When they were all done, John's hands slipped beneath the fabric and explored Sherlock's skin. He warm hands left chills in their wake as he stroked. When he shifted up to push the open shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock boldly leaned in and kissed John's chest. John's breath caught in his throat, his fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulders as he fought the urge to damn preparation and damn foreplay and simply take the other man. "Sherlock-" It was a warning, a promise, a sound of pure pleasure.

But Sherlock was unheeding of John's warning. He _wanted_ to push him over the edge. He wanted to make the usually level headed doctor lose control. So he turned and ran his tongue over John's skin, focusing on the most sensitive spots on the chest- pulse points, nipples, sternum. In an instant, he got what he wanted. John's control snapped.

"Fuck, Sherlock," he whispered, pushing Sherlock flat on the bed and pinning his shoulders. Sherlock smiled wickedly at him.

"That's the point, I believe."

"Smart ass," John growled before kissing Sherlock again. This time they were chest to chest, bare skin to bare skin. They could feel each other's hearts thundering. John's usually steady hands fumbled at Sherlock's belt, opening it and then impatiently pushing the trousers down Sherlock's hips. It was a good thing Sherlock had taken those moments to undo the buttons of John's jeans, otherwise the doctor would have tried to push them down -buttons and all- by sheer force of will.

Suddenly they were both naked, sweat starting to slick their skin as blood surged hotly through their veins. The tingle that had gripped Sherlock seemed to jump along his body like electricity now, sensitizing every inch of flesh, heightening every sense. The pleasure was so foreign to him. He didn't know how to handle it, how to control it. Suddenly his skin felt too tight, his body itched all over and there was an ache, a bittersweet ache centered in his core.

"John," he moaned softly, needing...needing... John knew what his partner needed. And he fulfilled the role gladly. In a flash, he pulled the lubricant from the bedside table and coated his hand. When he gripped Sherlock's cock, his body bowed off the bed like a shot, a sound of wild pleasure escaping his throat. "John!" Just when he thought the pleasure could build no more, John started to stroke him. The firm grip that held him moved up and down, slowly at first, then more quickly. The ache became a demand, an animal rearing it's head in a wild rush for completion. He pushed his hips up to meet John's hand, his own fists gripping the sheets.

It took less than two minutes. Thirty years of pent up need tore through Sherlock with more intensity than he'd believed possible and slammed the orgasm into him. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming with it. Unbelievable, incomprehensible, unimaginable pleasure. Was this what it was all about? Was this what he'd been missing all these years?

He hadn't even come down from the high of his orgasm when John started moving again. He wasn't done with Sherlock, not by a long shot. This time, he coated his own erection with the slick liquid, then turned the utterly pliant and spent Sherlock onto his hands and knees. John was already so turned on, so enticed, that he didn't know if he would last much longer than Sherlock had. In the past, thinking of what he was about to do -sex with a man- would have been a turn off for him. But now, with Sherlock in front of him, it was so arousing that he only hoped he could last longer than an over eager teen on prom night.

Despite his bonelessness, a small shudder went through Sherlock as John's cock brushed against him. All of this was new to him, but this seemed particularly so. Before he could give it any more thought, John reached around and gripped his cock again. It was still incredibly sensitive from his orgasm. He groaned at the contact, shots of pleasure sent along his body. Behind him, John didn't press forward yet. He only stayed there, acclimating them both to the concept. But his hand kept moving over Sherlock's cock. After a few moments, he felt what he'd been waiting for. Sherlock began to harden again. He moaned, not certain he could handle another orgasm. But John wasn't going to back off. He kept stroking while the tip of his cock began to press insistently against Sherlock.

Slowly, one millimeter at a time, he sank into Sherlock. Each time Sherlock squeezed around him, John answered it with a squeeze of his hand. By the time John was fully seated in him, they were both panting from exertion. Sherlock didn't know which sensation was more intense- John's hand on him, or his cock inside him. But then, John moved and _oh!_ It was too much, more than he could process, more than he could handle, more than he could-

"Sherlock," John breathed his name raggedly. He'd barely built up any speed but he was already so close, so close. He moved his hand faster, determined at least to make it until Sherlock came again. He closed his eyes, the sight of Sherlock writhing under him enough to put him over the edge if he looked another moment longer.

Sherlock tensed, his whole body straining with the sensations. He could feel it building within him again, that release, that explosion that would rock him to his very core. It tripped to the precipice when he felt John trembling behind him. Then John moaned his name again and that was it. He plunged over the edge and into the chasm of dark, desperate pleasure. His hoarse cry was all John needed. He picked up his speed, driving into Sherlock harder until in only a moment, his own orgasm broke over him. He shuddered, fingers digging into Sherlock's hip while his other hand wrung the last of the detective's climax from him.

They both tried to catch their breath, tried to slow their racing hearts. After a beat, John slowly disentangled their bodies and they collapsed onto the bed.

"John," Sherlock moaned, one arm thrown over his eyes. "John, what did you do to me?"

"What do you mean?" John asked, his own eyes unwilling to open.

"I don't...do things like this! I don't have these needs."

"And I'm not gay," John returned, a smile curling his lips.

"Oh sod off," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock, you couldn't move me from this bed for all the tea in England."

"I suppose that means you expect me to be the one to get up?"

John paused a beat, not quite sure how to word what he wanted to say. "Not necessarily," he mumbled hesitantly. Even still, Sherlock heard it.

"Oh good. Because I had no intention of moving, even if you insisted."

They lay in silence for a while, equal parts exhaustion and contemplation stealing any words they might have spoken. It was much later, when the sweat had dried on their skin and their heart rates had returned to normal, when John spoke.

"So what is this now?"

"Wha'd you mean?" Sherlock asked sleepily.

"I mean, is this a once in a blue moon thing? Just an itch we scratch when I can't go another minute without it? Or is this..." he drifted off, not sure what else to say.

"I don't like being distracted during cases," Sherlock said firmly.

"I know that."

"Not by useless chatter, not by food, and certainly not by sex."

"I _know that_."

"But aside from when I need my full mental faculties-" he paused a moment, a soft smile breaking over his face. "That was certainly pleasurable enough for both of us. A fantastic diversion, you might even say. And all that exertion is certainly good for the health," he added thoughtfully. "So I'd think, logically, it would only make sense to repeat this performance as often as we wanted. Provided you know not to try and distract me during cases."

"Of course," John said faintly, hardly daring to believe what Sherlock had just said. Sex with Sherlock? Whenever he wanted? "Then...what does that make this?" He made an all encompassing gesture to them and though Sherlock's eyes weren't open, he could still sense the gesture. He shrugged.

"We live together, work together, get along well, have..._feelings_," he spoke the word as if it were a parasite, "for each other, and now we enjoy sex together. Call it whatever you like, John, it makes no difference to me."

"What, you don't care? If this is a relationship or- or fuck buddies, or even nothing at all?"

"John, the term applied to this does not matter one whit to me. I already have what I want."

"And what's that?" John asked a little petulantly. How could Sherlock not care?

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked at John. "You."

All the ire washed out of John like a wave being pulled back to sea. Of course Sherlock wouldn't care what the label was. It was what he actually had that mattered to him. And what he wanted was John. A set of butterflies took flight in his stomach. Silly, but they were there all the same. He smiled softly at Sherlock.

"That you've got."

After that, it was as if that final snow had fallen and finally one of them went to the window and wondered how the hell they'd ended up with several inches of accumulation and neither of them had noticed. They slept together the next night, the night after that and the night after that.

It wasn't always easy, certainly. Sometimes John had an itch to scratch while Sherlock was in the middle of a three patch problem and couldn't be bothered to give a damn about John's sex drive. Sometimes Sherlock's inquisitiveness (and thirty years of ignored questions about how and why and what would it feel like) had them ending up in some awkward sex position with even more awkward sex going on. But John handled it with the same patience he'd always handled Sherlock with. Exasperation, frustration, and then acceptance with a rueful smile.

They never did label their relationship. Not that they needed to. They were fully committed to each other without special words to bind them. And to both their minds, it wasn't anyone elses damn business what they did behind closed doors. Of course there was speculation over the years, but that had been going on long before they'd gotten into bed together. So things went on much the same way they always had.

Which suited both men just fine, because it was just the way they liked it.

_**If you feel so inclined to leave me a little gem of a review for my efforts, I promise the Sherlock fairy will come and give you dreams of our favorite detective naked under a waterfall!**_


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